


GRAVEYARD

by duskglow



Category: Haikyuu!!, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskglow/pseuds/duskglow
Summary: This is a place for me to put a bunch of WIPS and smaller oneshots that I ended up abandoning. Each chapter is a different fic; titles will be marked according to pairing.
Kudos: 11





	1. [iwaoi] the truth is out there

There’s a poster stuck to the front of Hajime’s shoe locker.

It’s shittily crafted, and if Hajime had to hedge a guess, he’d say it was probably made on an ancient program like Microsoft Paint. What’s worse is that the absurdity of the damn thing doesn’t stop there. The text on the poster reads: _Have you seen this cryptid on campus? If so, please contact me at the number listed below!_

A phone number is written in rainbow comic sans. Even further below that, there is a blurry, low quality picture. It’s dark and obviously edited in an attempt to make it more clear. It doesn’t work. Hajime squints at the picture. There'a a figure in it, striding across what must be the soccer field behind the gym. It's a poorly-taken picture of a student, but whoever made and put up the poster must be straight up delusional, or eccentric, or whatever else that could describe someone who would honestly think that sitting down and creating this terrible poster isn’t completely crazy.

Hajime frowns, about to turn and head to his first class, but something in the image catches his eye. The figure is wearing a backpack, and there is something familiar about the shape of a keychain that hangs from it.

Hajime looks down at his own backpack. His Godzilla keychain grins, almost as if it’s mocking him.

“Son of a bitch,” Hajime says.

Hajime strides to his first period class with the shitty poster clutched in his fist. He pretends to pay attention for the beginning of the class, and then whips out his phone as soon as his teacher turns her back. Under his desk, he inputs the number from the poster and types, _are you the weirdo who’s been putting up the posters?_

He receives a response almost immediately. _why yes, that is me! although i can’t say i appreciate being called a weirdo :(_

Hajime rolls his eyes. _let’s meet up,_ he types.

_oh my, you must be a good samaritan with evidence, then~~~ did you like my poster?_

_no,_ Hajime responds. _it was a shitty poster_

_you don’t seem very nice :/_

_i’m not. where are we meeting_

_my clubroom, of course~~ second floor, third room on the right. can you come after school??_

_i have practice._

_after your practice is over, then~ bring your evidence, mysterious mean guy!! can’t wait!_

Hajime does not answer that, instead shoving his phone back into his pocket and feigning interest in whatever his English literature teacher is droning on about.

Practice was intense, today, and Hajime wonders if maybe the events of the past seven hours are meant to be some sort of karma, although he can’t quite place where he had gone wrong in the timeline of his life. After a quick shower and changing into an extra set of clothes, Hajime leaves the gym and sets off for his meeting place with the odd stranger.

The clubroom door that Hajime ends up standing in front of is decorated in tiny alien stickers and glow in the dark stars. There’s a nameplate placed right in the middle, proudly proclaiming _Creepy Cryptids and Cosmic Creatures Club_ in loopy font. The alliteration makes Hajime want to throw up. He considers just leaving, since he really doesn’t owe this person anything. Instead he knocks twice on the door. It immediately springs open, the movement taking Hajime by surprise; he peers up at the reason for his shitty day.

The guy on the other side is… Not at all what Hajime expected.

First of all, he’s on crutches, although there’s no cast on his foot or anything. Hajime thinks he must be recovering, then, although he can’t imagine what this guy could possibly doing that would lead to him fucking up his ankle or whatever enough to warrant crutches.

Hajime proceeds to look him up and down. The guy is slouching a bit, but it’s clear that he’s tall. A bit skinny, which is only obvious because he’s wearing skinny jeans ripped at the knees, which certainly isn’t a part of their school uniform. He must have changed after school--who would even go through all that effort?

He’s got windswept brown hair that looks half like a bedhead and half like he actually put effort into making his curls fall in artful layers across his forehead. Browline glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, skewed a bit. Beneath them, his eyes gleam, indicating nothing but trouble.

“Ah, I never thought that an athlete would be the one to engage in my silly little club activity!” he exclaims. This guy is gonna be a handful, Hajime muses, if the way he utilizes dramatic pauses and sarcasm is any indication.

“How’d you know I was an athlete?” Hajime asks.

The guy huffs. “Well, you did say that you had practice in your brief text. I assumed that you meant some sort of sports practice. Also, your taste in apparel is a clear indicator. Why do all athletes insist on wearing the same five outfits? Have you ever worn a pair of jeans in your life?”

“Why the hell would I do that?” Hajime asks gruffly, but still sneaks a look down at his clothes with a frown. Maybe he should wear jeans, at least once in a while. But wearing t-shirts and joggers is so much _comfier_.

“Hm,” the guy says. “Your scowling isn’t very becoming of you, mysterious mean stranger. What’s your name, again?”

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” he grumbles, sticking his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t bow. “Class four.”

The guy's face scrunches up. “I don’t suppose you're a fan of strangers using your first name?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hm… Well I’ll just call you Iwa-chan, then.”

Hajime stares at him.

“I’m Oikawa Tooru,” he says with a flourish. “Class five. You probably know me for being the most attractive and intelligent student in third year. I have my own fan club in everything.”

“I’ve never heard of you before in my life,” Hajime deadpans.

Oikawa gasps in indignation. “Well, you don’t have to be so rude about it. Anyway, come inside, Iwa-chan.”

“Iwaizumi,” Hajime corrects.

Oikawa hums like he’s actually listening, waving a nonchalant hand. He moves inside, sliding gracefully down into a bean bag and placing his crutches to the side of his seat.

The interior is actually really nice--there’s a small foldable table, stacked with printouts and cards of the Tarot variety and a multitude of colorful snacks. Posters from various B-list monster movies line the walls. Hajime secretly delights in seeing a vintage Godzilla one stuck up on the back wall. A bookshelf that’s chock-full of pamphlets, leaflets and old books stands against the right wall. Oikawa is lounging to the left--there’s a bunch of cushions and seats in that area, a carpet with a map of the solar system scrunched up underneath.

“Not a bad set-up, in here,” Hajime notes as he drops his bag near the door and goes to sit on one of the unoccupied cushions.

Oikawa hums again. He probably does that a lot. “Well, Iwa-chan, I’m assuming you came here with evidence.” He outstretches an eager hand, long fingers waggling. “Gimme.”

“No,” Hajime says, leaning back. “I don’t have any evidence for your ‘cryptid,’ or whatever the hell you called it.”

Oikawa actually has the nerve to look devastated. Hajime begrudgingly does not like the look on him. “Then why are you even here?” he exclaims.

“‘Cause,” Hajime leans over to the table and picks up a stray poster. “This is a picture of me.”

Oikawa blinks, eyes wide and round. They really are expressive, Hajime thinks; a pretty, warm type of brown that reminds him of crackling firewood or something to that effect. Kind of smoldering, flickering in the light.

“A picture of you?” Oikawa snatches the poster and brings it up close to his face, squinting. Hajime finds the action endearing, in a weird, nerdy kind of way. “How did you even know?”

“My backpack’s the same,” Hajime says with an eye roll, pointing over to his bag that sits by the door. He kinda feels like calling Oikawa a dumbass or something.

“Ah,” Oikawa says sagely. “An error of judgement, then. And here I thought Makki had actually found evidence of Aoba Johsai’s live-in sasquatch. What a shame.”

Hajime splutters. “Are you saying I look like sasquatch?”

“Well,” Oikawa says, short and curt, letting his silence speak for him.

“Wow, you’re an asshole,” Hajime states, crossing his arms over his chest.

Oikawa grins, lopsided. Hajime can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. “Believe me, I’ve been called much worse.”

Hajime doesn’t know what to say to that, so he ignores it in favor of standing up. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to let you know, so that you could take down all of the dumb posters and stop making a fool out of yourself.”

Oikawa harrumphs. “I am not embarrassed or ashamed. In fact, I think I might leave them up for a bit. Who knows, there might be another sasquatch on campus that has yet to be found, and I need to be the first one contacted if this is the case. Obviously.”

He’s being one hundred percent serious, Hajime realizes. This guy is a _nutcase_.

“Well, good luck with that,” is what Hajime settles on saying. He shifts on his feet. “It’s way late. I gotta get home. Shouldn’t you be leaving, too?”

Oikawa waves a hand. “Oh, Iwa-chan, don’t you worry about me! Kaoru-sensei will be here soon enough to kick me out.” Hajime vaguely remembers a teacher that goes by that name--she must be Oikawa’s club sponsor. 

Hajime eyes Oikawa’s legs, and then his crutches, and the way he’s sunken into his beanbag. “You need help getting up?”

Oikawa’s face does this complicated thing, then, where it twists and scrunches and smooths out in the span of a second. Hajime blinks. “No, I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he says, and his voice is suddenly venomous where it had been saccharine sweet just a moment before.

Oikawa has no trouble maneuvering to his feet with crutches--he’s a pro at it. He must have been using them for a while. He’s a lot more gangly than Hajime had initially thought, all long limbs and lean muscle, too.

Hajime decides to bite the bullet and just ask the question he’s been wondering this entire time. “Ankle?” he questions, looking Oikawa in the face.

Oikawa quiets, eyes averted. “No,” he eventually answers. “My knee.”

“What happened?”

“Accident,” Tooru answers, voice clipped as he grabs for his crutches and positions them under his armpits. “I jumped and fell wrong.”

Hajime hums, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I tore the rotator cuff in my shoulder two years ago. I play baseball,” he explains. “I’m back on the starting lineup again, but even now… I don’t know, it still hurts sometimes, I guess.”

Oikawa looks up, mouth parted. “I…” he says. “I used to play volleyball.”

“Used to? And hey, weren't you just bad-mouthing athletes?”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “Haven’t exactly been on the court for a while.” He gestures to his body. “Don’t know if I could go back, even if I tried. It’s been too long. Almost a year, now.”

“That’s bullshit,” Hajime decides, and Oikawa looks up, eyes wide in surprise. “If you love it, then you should go back. You may have to wait a while to properly heal up, but still.”

Oikawa looks to the side. “I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it,” he says. “You look like you’d do great on the field. Or court. Whatever you call it.”

Oikawa regards him for a moment, then breaks out into a crooked grin that Hajime is quickly recognizing as his signature. “Oh, Iwa-chan, are you appraising my athletic figure?”

“Die,” Hajime says, pretending as if he isn’t totally blushing down to his neck. He goes to yank open the clubroom door, but then--

The lights flicker and die. The A/C unit stops running, too. Everything is dark and quiet and still, save for Oikawa’s light breathing, which is quickly turning into heavy panting. Hajime thinks this is probably the strangest situation he's gotten himself into on Aoba Johsai's campus thus far.

“Oh,” Oikawa says. Then, “Oh, _f_ _uck_ yes! Do you know what this means, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi rips out his phone and flips it open to provide some light. “What,” he says blankly.

“Aoba Johsai High School is totally haunted!” Oikawa exclaims.


	2. [krbk] sing for me

Someone is strumming a guitar outside of Katsuki’s dorm room. It’s horrible. To make matters worse, the guitarist is _singing_. The voice isn’t even that bad, but it’s so loud, and it’s three AM--Katsuki had just fallen into bed, ready for sleep to take him for a meager three hours until he has to get up for class again.

Katsuki checks his phone. The numbers across the top read 4:04 AM. The guy still hasn’t stopped. In fact, he starts to sing even _louder_. Like a complete, total asshole.

If Katsuki weren’t already awake, he’d probably have done something drastic, and most likely violent. Like hopped out his window to personally attack the culprit. He’s not above attacking someone, especially if they’re impeding his ability to sleep. In fact, he’d be justified in doing so. Probably be doing everyone else in the dorm a huge favor, as well.

He contemplates what actions can be taken without facing any punishments or possible legal repercussions.

The words are muffled through the thin walls so Katsuki can’t make out everything that the guy is saying, but he catches disgusting phrases like _You are the light that shines from above_ and _I miss you like the sea misses the sky_ and _Please come back to me, Kyouka,_ and Katsuki most certainly is _not_ Kyouka. He doesn’t know a Kyouka. He doesn’t even remember there being a Kyouka in his hall, not that he’s good with names or anything.

After a few more moments of contemplation in which the guy outside somehow manages to compare Kyouka to a star and a flower in the same line, Katsuki makes the executive decision to get up out of his comfy, warm bed, and at the very least _yell_ at the guy. He figures that would be okay, and it’s the option least likely to get him into trouble. He whips open the window, leans down, and shouts, “Hey, _asshole_ , some of us are trying to sleep!”

The guy who looks up at him with shock written across his face--well, he is not at all what Katsuki thought he’d look like. 

He’d expected a conservatory student--what, with all of the terrible guitar-playing and off-key singing--but this guy looks more like one of the few people that attended this shitty liberal arts school on a sports scholarship. Unfortunately, Katsuki would be lying if he said he wasn’t built; the guy is broad and large and the muscles on his forearms are defined from where they peak out beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his sweatshirt. His hair, pushed back with a headband, is spiky and bloodred in color. And his sweatshirt is blue, which clashes horribly with aforementioned hair, and he’s got jeans ripped at the knee, and fuck. He’s wearing _crocs_.

Now, Katsuki happens to be a double-major--chemistry and studio art, because he enjoys suffering both academically and creatively--however, despite not having pursued the family business, having designer parents has taught him one or two things in his lifetime about fashion.

And he’s never wanted to burn an article of clothing more than he’s wanted to burn those crocs.

The guy is staring. His eyes are wide, upturned. He doesn’t look like a college student--he doesn’t even have dark circles under his eyes, the fucker. He looks well-rested. It's four in the morning. Katsuki suddenly hates him _even_ more. He didn’t think it would be possible.

Then the guy opens his mouth and says, stuttering, “Are--are you an angel?”

Katsuki physically recoils, stumbling back into his room for a moment before he composes himself and comes back to the window again. The guy is still looking up at him. “The fuck?” Katsuki asks, because really. What the fuck.

“Oh,” the guy says simply. He blinks, and scratches at the back of his head. “You’re not Jirou.”

“Who the hell is Jirou?” Katsuki shouts irritably. “And what the hell are you doing, anyway? It’s four in the goddamn morning. Go home.”

“Well,” the guy says. He’s not even yelling but his voice projects up to Katsuki, who remains at the second floor of the building. He rubs at his neck awkwardly. “If you really want the full story…”

“I don’t,” Katsuki immediately tries to cut in.

This guy is having none of it. “So I have this friend. Denki.”

“I don’t care.”

“You asked, though.”

“It was a rhetorical question, dumbass,” Katsuki says. The volume of his voice has lowered substantially, but he’s still angry. “Go home.”

“And he’s dating this girl, Jirou,” the guy plows on, completely ignoring Katsuki. “Or, he was, anyway. They broke up recently, which honestly is unsurprising, since they have this on-again, off-again type thing going on. And Denki had this amazing idea of serenading her to win her back--”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Katsuki snaps. “Why’d he send you if he’s trying to win her back, anyways? Your friend sounds like an idiot.”

“Well, the thing is,” the guy laughs and scrubs at the back of his neck again. It might be endearing if Katsuki wasn’t sick of him. “He already tried the whole serenading thing, and Jirou just ended up throwing things at him from her window. Denki was pretty put out by it, cause he wrote this whole awesome song for her, y’know? So I volunteered to go instead! Since Jirou likes me and wouldn’t throw things at me. Probably.”

Katsuki stares. “You sound like an idiot, too. There’s no way she’d ever get back with your lame ass friend after a stunt like this.”

“Well, Mr. Smart Guy, what would you suggest?” The guy has a stupid grin on his face. His teeth look sharp, but maybe that’s just Katsuki’s poor eyesight.

“Flowers and chocolates and an apology for whatever the fuck he did wrong. Like a normal human being. Obviously.”

“Wow,” the guy says. A smirk lights up his face. “You must watch a lot of rom-coms.”

“Fuck you,” Katsuki spits.

“Actually, you know what, you seem more like a shoujo manga type of guy.”

Katsuki seethes. “Fuck you,” he says again.

“I’m Kirishima Eijirou,” the guy says. He finally slings his guitar over his back, freeing up both hands, which he immediately stuff into the pockets of his jeans. “What’s your name?”

“Fuck off.”

“Y’know, I could just come into your hall and look at the name on your door, so you either tell me now or we do this the hard way.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrow. “You’re way too persistent, shitty-hair.”

“It’s one of my best qualities.” And he straight-up winks at Katsuki. “Right next to my amazing hair which is _not_ shitty, thank you very much.”

“Debatable,” Katsuki argues. “Maybe if you didn’t spike it to the motherfucking heavens.”

“Our hair isn’t all that different,” Kirishima protests, pointing at Katsuki’s hair, then his own. Then, once again, he asks, “What’s your name?”

“Why do you wanna learn my name so bad, shithead?”

Kirishima chuckles. “Well.. I guess it’s ‘cause I think you’re like… stupid cute.”

“What,” Katsuki says, and it takes a moment but he feels his face erupt into flames.

“I mean, I’ve only known you for a grand total of--” he checks his watch. “Three minutes, and you curse a lot, and you’ve got a _little_ bit of a temper--”

“You woke me up at four in the morning on a school night to serenade me with a shitty song which wasn’t even meant for me, dumbass,” Katsuki interrupts.

“--But I don’t really even mind, all that much. I could serenade you instead, if you’d like. You’re like, really attractive, too. Do you model?”

Katsuki squints. “Are you stupid?” He has modeled, but he will not say so.

“Sure am,” Kirishima says. “Can I get your number?”

“No,” Katsuki answers emphatically, and he hates that a part of his brain is silently protesting.

“Alright, I respect that,” Kirishima says. “But I have to believe that fate brought me to your window instead of Jirou’s, Mr. Angry Handsome man. I’ll see you around!”

“No, you won’t,” Katsuki says.

Kirishima winks at him one last time. “Also, your handsome and very capable self wouldn’t happen to know where Jirou Kyouka lives, would you?”

Katsuki gives him the finger and retreats into his room.

When he wakes up the next morning, he almost convinces himself that it was a dream.

But there’s a slight chill in the air, and when Katsuki looks, he sees that the window of his room had been left wide open.

“Bakugou’s pouting again,” Camie complains, poking his cheek. Katsuki swats at her hand. “What’s up, Baku-bro? C’mon, spill.”

“Leave me alone, you witch,” Katsuki growls.

“Hey,” she complains. “Don’t take it out on me, Blasty. It’s your own fault you only got, like, four hours of sleep again. Me, I always get a full nine hours.”

Todoroki nods in agreement. Yoarashi doesn’t say anything about the topic--he’s too busy looking at Todoroki, and honestly, why does Katsuki even bother wasting his time with these people. All they do is annoy him.

“Normally you manage your rampant anger pretty well, though. What’s up?” Camie persists. “Is it your friend again? Um, what do you call him?”

“Deku,” Katsuki answers automatically. He dabs at the canvas, scratches at a fleck of paint with his thumb nail. “And we’re not friends.”

“Midoriya is his arch-nemesis, Utsushimi,” Todoroki says, because he’s an asshole. Yoarashi laughs, voice booming.

“I fucking hate you people,” Katsuki grunts. “Why are you even here? Go back to your own studios where you won’t fucking bother me.”

“Can’t,” Camie sighs with a pout. “Pottery studio’s closed for the weekend because somebody almost blew up the kiln again. Wasn’t me this time, I swear!”

“Fabrication lab is booked right now,” Todoroki tacks on.

“So you decide to harass me in the one place that I use to get away from you?”

“We have classes here too, you know,” Todoroki says. “As much as I despise painting, it _is_ required for the major.”

Todoroki’s stupidly good at it, too, although he prefers stupid shit like woodworking. Part of Katsuki believes that he must have picked the most useless, inane concentration in his major just so he could piss of his dad. Katsuki has to admit, he appreciates the pettiness.

“Whatever,” Katsuki says. “Just stop talking to me, you shitheads.”

“No,” Camie and Todoroki both say. Yoarashi laughs again.

“I fucking hate you people,” Katsuki repeats. He just sounds tired, though.

“Hey! Angry Handsome Guy!” A loud, familiar voice calls out, and Katsuki, whose body is slowly freezing up with what can only be described as a combination of extreme horror and abject mortification, turns to see _Kirishima_ of all people, the stupid hot guitarist asshole from the night before. He wonders how this can be possible--their two sudden run-ins with one another--and then Katsuki remembers that the higher powers that are control of his pathetic life obviously hate him, and are inflicting onto him all the torture imaginable.

Kirishima’s juggling what appears to be at least twenty different rolls of tape--duct, masking, painters, scotch--in his big arms, that are noticeably muscular, since he’s wearing a fucking muscle tank. It’s almost winter; Katsuki’s wearing no less than four layers.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Katsuki blurts, and then tacks on, “Don’t call me that.”

Kirishima’s face visibly brightens. He strides over to Katsuki and his group. “My friend Sero is an art major. Does a lot of installation work. Do you know him?”

Katsuki’s scowl deepens. “That bitch with the tape.”

“Love his work. It’s a real conversation starter,” Todoroki inputs, one hundred percent serious.

Kirishima actually laughs. “Yeah, that’s Sero for you! If I’m being honest, I don’t get most of it, but I’m no artist. I guess I’ll just appreciate all of the hard work he put into it!”

“Yeah! I love that energy!” Yoarashi says, pumping a fist, because he’s the same brand of boneheaded idiot jock as Kirishima. Kirishima, of course, looks absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of finding someone who values loud yelling and manly passion just as much as him.

“Well anyway, to answer your question,” Kirishima says, turning back to Katsuki with his stupid, earnest, puppydog eyes, “I’m here because Sero needs my help to move some of his bigger pieces, and I’m one of his only friends that doesn’t have a class right now. And also probably one of his only friends that can lift stuff.” 

Katsuki eyes him, then his arms. They are… large. Very large. He has big biceps and they’re annoyingly impressive in their definition.

“Yo,” Camie says, propping her head up in her hands, eyes sparkling unnaturally. “Hey, bro. What’s your name? Are you single? I’m, like, asking for a friend. I’m a lesbian anyways, but I have this really hot gay friend who’s totally into cute jocks--”

Katsuki elbows her in the ribs, hard. 

“And he’s like, _totally_ emotionally constipated but he’s cute as hell and you kinda just have to chip away at his cold, hard exterior to get to the soft stuff in the middle--”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Katsuki interrupts, the horror and mortification combo once again resurfacing.

“And I can totally give you his name and number right now if we both run as fast as we can so that he won’t catch us and also kill us.”

“Deal,” Kirishima says immediately, and he drops all of the tape onto the floor and takes off after Camie and the two of them are sprinting out the door and down the hall so fast that Katsuki doesn’t even have time to process it properly. He sits there like an idiot, gaping at the open doorway and listening to giggles echoing down the corridor, and thinks about when exactly in his life that everything went to shit. Probably as soon as he decided to be too chummy with these fuckers. He never should’ve made friends, seeing as they only serve to anger and disappoint him.

“Wow,” Todoroki says, and when Katsuki turns to look at him, he sees nothing but the camera of Todoroki’s phone as the bastard snaps a picture. “The face you’re making right now is hilarious. Midoriya is going to love this picture of you.”

“You look constipated,” Yoarashi adds with blinding honesty. 

Katsuki gets up and lays face down on the floor so that his yells of anguish will be effectively muffled.


End file.
